A Contribution to the Critique of Political Economy

Beneath their wrinkled brows
they only keep their sweat,
Their exhausted scars and
the work of yesterweek.

Hours are counted, recounted,
Added and subtracted from the
unforgiving clock as it slows,
Breaking for a special fee.

Everything is valued in
time that drains through a hole,
Around a face that wears
pale and empty and cold.

That was twenty five in five.
Both know it in tears at night
that fall between the beat,
Begging to slow the pounding dark.

The glimmers of light come free
when the tired shackles return.
Whistles mark the same start,
Checked, checked again, ignored.

This one is on us, they are told,
But the next two are on you.

a contribution to the critique of political economy


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